


Hurtful words

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Drunkenness, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt feelings, Kissing, M/M, Making Up, Metaphors, new start
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4789811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story of hurt feelings and rebuilding of a relationship, of a love delayed too long, but too strong to surrender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurtful words

_November 16_ , Sherlock thought idly, _one week to go._

“Will you let me stay here with you next weekend?” He asked quietly.

John looked up from the newspaper he was perusing, his distracted look sharpening to something more raw, “Yeah, ah… yeah, if you don’t mind.” He paused for a moment thoughtfully, “You remembered.”

“Of course,” Sherlock put down the short-bladed knife he’d been absently turning over in his fingers.

John’s brittle expression softened minutely as the corner of his mouth tugged upward slightly, “Course you did, don’t know why I was surprised.”

“Because you’re an… “

 “Never tire of calling me that, do you?” John said, shortly.

Sherlock frowned and began again, “I was going to say… because you’re an intensely private man who assumes that dates important to him have no importance to others.”

“Oh.”

“And of course I’ll keep you company. I wouldn’t leave you alone on what my brother would dramatically call a _danger night_ for you.

John methodically folded the newspaper and put it aside with exaggerated care, “It’s not what I’d call a _danger_ night.”

“Only the second anniversary of the death of your wife and child,” Sherlock didn’t gild the words, “nothing that would possibly prompt… thoughts of self-harm, then?”

John rubbed roughly at his face in frustration, “Jesus, Sherlock. Is a little tact beyond you?”

“I’m sorry, John, but if you need someone to coddle you and skip around harsh realities, then you’ve chosen a very poor flatmate, surely that’s been abundantly clear for several years.”

“No, you’re right, of course, and Mycroft would be right too. I’m not… kind to myself around that date.”

Sherlock mad a non-committal noise and didn’t mention John’s valiant attempt to drink himself into intensive care the previous year. That had been… more than a bit not good and Sherlock had sworn that if John felt the need to embrace alcoholic oblivion again this year, it would be under his supervision.

“You need to deaden the memories, I understand. You have more cause than most, and I won’t stop you. I only ask that you let me watch over you. Keep an eye on your intake.”

“You won’t be drinking with me?” He sounded surprised.

“I think we can both agree, after your stag night, that one of us drunk at a time is more than enough.

 John couldn’t suppress the sudden laugh at the memory, “Yes… yes, I think one at a time might be best for everyone.

“Less chance of us ending the night in lock-up,” Sherlock smiled ruefully.

“Or throwing up at a crime scene,” John added.

“God, that night was awful,” John chuckled darkly.

“Mmmm, that entire year was awful,” Sherlock nodded, wincing, “truly, truly, awful.”

John fell silent. There were so many memories from that year that should have been cause for celebration; Sherlock’s return, his marriage, the pregnancy. Objectively, those moments should remain in memory as highlights of one’s life. Instead the specter of pain and death overshadowed them all and left them both with nothing but the bitter taste of loss and missed opportunities.

“It’s done now. Done and gone,” John murmured.

“And you’re home,” Sherlock ventured softly.

“And I’m home,” John agreed.

**-**

“Wha I’m tryin’ to say… “ John swayed alarmingly on the couch and Sherlock readied himself to intervene if John chose to topple off completely, “Is tha… “ John’s brow furrowed deeply, “What was I tryin’ to say?” He ended by looking at Sherlock hopefully.

“I’ve no idea,” Sherlock smiled fondly and took the scotch glass from John’s hand. It was empty and he had hopes that without the reminder of the tumbler in his hand, it might remain so.

Leaning back against the leather, John’s eyes flickered closed and for a moment Sherlock thought he may have finally dozed off until the lids eased open again and John slurred, “Thanks for this…”

“For what?” he asked quietly.

“For… “ John waved a groggy hand around, “this… all of… of this. You… this… “ the eyes closed again.

Sherlock let the silence linger, content to leave the vague statement stand, however John seemed insistent to finish his muddled thought.

“You’re… mmmm… good,” he added determinedly.

Sherlock chuckled gently, “That’s nice to know, you’re good too, John.”

The blonde-grey head turned and once again, the lids parted, “No… I mean it,” he said seriously, the effect somewhat weakened by his tousled hair and high colour, “you’re… that other thing… ummm… nice.”

“Go to bed, John. You’ve had enough.” Sherlock said the firm words laced with gentle care.

“No… ‘M not finished,“ John mumbled, “you’re… “ he leaned out to tap on Sherlock’s chest and sighed deeply, “why aren’t you…?”

“Why aren’t I…what?”  Sherlock looked down at John’s hand, now spayed on his chest, intrigued and a little unsettled.

John clenched his hand slightly, bunching the fabric of Sherlock’s robe before gently releasing it again, “I’d… “ John stumbled on the words, “… if you… if you only… “ his eyes were soft, searching Sherlock’s face and suddenly, the detective knew what he was trying to say.

“Go to bed, John,” Sherlock suggested again, more forcefully, “Stop talking, before you say something you’ll regret. You don’t want to do this now.”

“Too late,” he murmured, “already regret… sh’d have… ages ago.” John was absently stroking the silk of Sherlock’s robe, smooth strokes against the fine weave, “Want’d you…” he trailed off, staring at his hand.

Sherlock risked a glance down while John was consumed in watching his own hand on the shiny cloth and confirmed what he already suspected. The tenting of John’s pants was visible even under the camouflaging fabric of his robe and with an unsteady swallow he placed his own palm over John’s and stilled its movement against his chest.

“John… “ He whispered softly, “You’re drunk, go to bed.” Grasping the Doctor’s fingers between his own he eased the hand away, already feeling the cold taking its place and fighting the desperate desire to put the hand back where it so clearly belonged.

John looked up, his groggy eyes still hopeful and flirting, “Come with?”

The words tasted vile as he forced them out, but a drunken shag with John was a recipe for disaster, “No. I think it would be best if you went alone.”

John’s face fell and the eyes, so moist and soft, hardened in a moment and he dropped his head with a sigh, “Right… S’ok, didn’t think… was right…”

“John…”

“Noooo, S’ok.” John waved an erratic hand, “S’fine. Don’ worry ‘bout me.” He reached for the glass and then seeing it empty, instead pushed himself up to stand wobbling against the sofa.

“John, please…”

Another wave of the hand, which threatened to overbalance him until he steadied himself on the back of the sofa and said tersely, “I’m goin’ to bed. Night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rose, appalled at the hurt and rejection in John’s voice, “Please, I don’t want…”

“No,” John turned carefully, arms stretched to maintain his balance, “you said… you don’t.”

Sherlock’s hands fell helplessly to his sides as John wove his way to the door and made his shaky way up the stairs. He stood watching the man he loved most in the world, and wanted since the day they met, begin his lonely trek, one step at a time, and felt utterly helpless to make things right.

He’d just concluded that things might look brighter in the morning and resolved himself to call it a night when John muttered in a  slurring voice that cut through the silent air and tore Sherlock’s already bruised heart into pieces, “Frigid, fucking, cocktease.”

**-**

The light was too bright, and the sounds too loud when John stumbled into the kitchen the following morning. Sherlock was already deep in concentration, fully dressed and bent over his microscope.

“Jesus, how drunk did I get?” Even the sound of the gas jet under the kettle seemed abnormally loud.

There was no response from Sherlock, who simply jotted some observations in a small notebook and continued his study.

Gently stirring his tea, John gingerly took a seat on the other side of the table, “I can’t remember much after we finished the curry. Was I much trouble?”

The lack of a dismissive laugh from Sherlock was mildly disconcerting, but it wasn’t all that unusual for Sherlock to become engrossed in an experiment to the exclusion of all else, he tried again, “Hope I didn’t do anything… embarrassing?”

 There was a sudden cessation of movement before Sherlock resumed the fine adjustments on the microscope focus knob. Even with his crushing hangover, John had seen it.

“Sherlock…?”

Sherlock remained dedicated to the slide under the microscope lens until John reached out to gently touch him on the arm, at which point he jerked back as if struck and rose to step away from the table.

“I’m going out,” he announced thickly, heading for the door.

John groaned and started to get up, “OK, give me a second, I’ll pull some clothes…”

He turned back, looking in John’s direction but somehow not quite at him, “No, stay here. I don’t need you.”

Perhaps if the thought of simply crawling back into bed hadn’t been so appealing, John would have considered the words more carefully, as it was he settled back gratefully into the chair, reaching again for his mug, “Alright, thanks. Tell me all about it when you get back, yeah?”

A terse grunt was all the response Sherlock gave as he disappeared out the door.

**-**

**What’s wrong with Sherlock? – Molly**

**Why? What’s he doing? – JW**

**That’s the problem, he’s not doing anything – Molly**

**I don’t understand – JW**

**I’ll call you – Molly**

“He’s just sitting here,” Molly’s voice was hushed, muffled in a clear attempt to conceal her conversation.

“Well, he does that Molly, he’s at Barts all the time,” John continued separating clothes into piles.

“No, you don’t understand. He’s not at the gas chromatograph, he’s not at the fume cabinet, he’s not _doing_ anything. He’s just sitting here, staring into space,” she sounded quite discomforted.

“Perhaps he’s in his mind palace? You’ve seen him do that, yeah?”

“No, it’s not that. He did that while he was staying with me. He’s here, John, but he’s not… here,” Molly paused, “Sorry, that’s not very clear is it?”

“Not really.”

There was a sigh as she tried again, “It’s as if he’s sitting at a bus-stop. He’s present but not interacting. He looks…brittle, as if a single word would send him running. I don’t know how else to explain it. Do you know what’s wrong?”

John considered for a moment, “No, but he was like that this morning. I tried to ask him but he shrugged me off. You want me to come and get him?”

“No, he’s fine here. He doesn’t take up much space,” she gave a weak laugh, “I’ll make sure he doesn’t starve, but John…”

“Hmm?”

“You know how I told you about him looking sad, when you can’t see him?”

“Yeah…”

“He looks sad, John. He looks _really_ sad”

**-**

**One week later**

Sherlock knelt by the body and silently put the pieces together in his head.

_Mid-thirties but looks older. Works with his hands but not a manual labourer. Artist – works with cast metals from the burns on his hands and arms. Comfortable but not affluent, so he’s talented. Lives with a long-term girlfriends, unwilling to commit to her. Has problems with her family, not her. Girlfriend owns a dog… that he doesn’t like._

Lestrade walked over to where John was standing quietly to one side.

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” He muttered to John, “He hasn’t said a word to you all afternoon. In fact, he hasn’t said a word to anyone. What’s going on?”

John had no answer but to shrug helplessly, “To be honest, I have _absolutely_ no idea. It’s like he’s on another planet. But then, he sort of always has been, right?”

Greg may have laughed if the situation had been less serious, but there was something deeply disturbing in the way Sherlock prowled the crime scene. With the exception of replying to Greg’s original text, Sherlock was yet to interact with a single member of the team. He’d arrived, got to work and avoided making eye contact with anyone.

“I hate to ask, but he’s not using, is he?” Greg leaned in close.

“No,“ John watched Sherlock circle the corpse again, “I don’t know what this is, but it’s not drugs.”

Greg looked thoughtful as they watched the pale man in the Belstaff, “You know what it’s like? It’s like he’s turning back into who he was before you came along. Reserved, distant, and uncommunicative. I’d almost forgotten what he was like back then.”

“It’s awful,” John muttered.

“Yes,” Greg agreed with a nod, “Isn’t it?”

**-**

**Three days later**

John couldn’t contain his frustration any longer, “For fucks sake, Sherlock. What is the _matter_ with you?”

Sherlock was once again in his chair, hands relaxed on the arms and simply… sitting. He’d been there for four hours. John’s voice was rough with disuse, which probably meant they’d gone yet another day without any words exchanged. Sherlock had once warned him that he went for days without speaking, but enough was enough.

The detective blinked once and turned to look at John. No, John thought, not _at_ him, _through_ him.

Gone were the casual smiles, the easy laughs, the rumpled flatmate sprawled in his robe. Replacing him had been the tightly buttoned detective; physically and emotionally. Always in his suit, Sherlock had become a stranger in the flat, and John had reached the end of his patience.

“Seriously, what the hell is going on?”

Slowly, Sherlock focussed on him. Yet his face remained blank and his voice was flat when he finally responded, “Oh, I didn’t realise you were here.”

“Didn’t realise… Sherlock, I’ve been _here_ all the time,” he shouted.

“Yes, I suppose you have. Sorry, I hadn’t noticed,” Sherlock’s gaze started drifting again until John stepped in front of him.

“No, don’t do that, don’t go away again. I need to know what’s going on.”

Sherlock looked confused, “Why?”

“Why what?” John sputtered.

“Why do you need to know?” Sherlock added tonelessly.

“Why do I… because we’re friends, Sherlock. Because you’re fucking _scaring me_. Because whatever’s going on with you, I want to help.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched before quirking up cruelly, “Help? No, I don’t think you can _help_ , John. I think you’ve _helped_ quite enough. This experiment has been an utter failure. I think Mycroft was right all along, sentiment is _not_ an advantage, and I rather think _alone_ protects me far better than _friends_ do.”

John’s mouth fell open under the barrage of bitter words, “I don’t understand. Who’s hurt you, Sherlock. What happened?”

The laugh, when it came, was unpleasant and his eyes narrowed even further, “How comforting it must be, to not remember. But don’t worry, John, I have my own methods for deleting unwanted material. Those little, irritating _feelings_ that have been building for you, I’m clearing out the attic, John. I’m done with them. ”

John looked at his friend in horror, still adrift and confused as Sherlock rose from his chair and passed John, giving him a wide berth.

As he opened the door to his bedroom, he paused and said, very clearly, “And then perhaps I won’t be a… how did you put it?... _frigid cocktease_ any more.”

And with the hateful words hanging in the air and the sound of Sherlock’s door slamming shut, the memories came rushing back to John.

**-**

**I’ve fucked up!! - JW**

**Two exclamations, must be serious – greg**

**Not joking! – JW**

**What’s happened? – greg**

**I think I made a pass at Sherlock – JW**

**Well that’s good, ‘bout time – greg**

**While drunk – JW**

**So, not good? – greg**

**I don’t remember. Sherlock’s pissed at me – JW**

**Oh :( – greg**

**Ideas? – JW**

**Don’t let Mycroft find out :) – greg**

**Piss off – JW**

**-**

**The following morning**

“Look, Sherlock…”

“Don’t bother.”

“Seriously though…”

“ _Seriously_ , John, don’t bother.”

John sighed over his toast. He’d barely slept, working through alternative after alternative on how to fix this and ended up with a few paltry scraps, they all centered around one phrase, “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock let the spoon fall noisily into his empty cereal bowl and looked up, “How many times do I have to repeat myself?”

“Not sure, ‘cause I’m going to keep saying it until you listen. I was drunk, what I said, whatever I might’ve done was way out of line and… I’m sorry.” John tried to put every shred of sincerity he felt into it.

Sherlock looked about to stand and walk away before he shook his head instead, “You don’t seem to understand, John. I’m not like other men, I’m not one of your _buddies_ who have a few pints with, call each other an arsehole and then it’s all fine the next day. I told you once, long ago; I don’t have friends. There’s never been anyone who spared a kind word for me,” Sherlock looked down at his hands, flat and tense on the table, “… until you. You came along and called me _brilliant_. You called me _amazing_ , and I _heard_ you, John. It mattered. Your _words_ mattered to me.”

“But I…”

“No, let me finish. _Logically,_ I know you were drunk, and I know you don’t remember, but for some reason, logic doesn’t seem to be helping me here. You can’t take those words back, and I can’t seem to forget them. So the only choice I have, if I’m to stop them tearing me apart, is to stop them _mattering_ to me,” He looked back up, his eyes desolate, “stop _you_ mattering to me.”

John closed his mouth, but shook his head, refusing to accept it.

“Let me try this another way. Someone who used to be important to me showed me this analogy several years ago. See this bowl?”

John gave a tiny nod.

Sherlock lifted it and brought it down swiftly against the edge of the table, watching as shard flew in all directions, “Now, say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” John parroted woodenly, knowing where this was going.

“Has it fixed the bowl?”

“No,” John conceded.

“No,” Sherlock confirmed, “Sometimes _sorry_ can’t mend things. Sometimes things stay broken.” Sherlock pushed the chair noisily away from the table, rose and padded to his room, closing the door behind him.

John scrubbed angrily at the tear that insisted on rolling down his cheek and whispered to the empty room, “That was me, Sherlock…” he stared at the closed door, “When you returned from the grave, I showed you that. I was your important person, and I forgave you. Why can’t you forgive me?”

**-**

The next two weeks were awful. Sherlock drifted around the flat like a ghost. Often gone before John woke up and returning long after he was in bed. Mrs Hudson, ever vigilant, had done her best to give the two men some space. Casseroles mysteriously appeared in the fridge, clean linens on the doorstep. More than once, John had retreated to her cosy kitchen when the mood in 221B became unbearably tense.

For his part, Sherlock remained distant and disengaged. Invitations to join him at crime scenes ceased, and John didn’t ask to join him. Once or twice, he thought he may have caught Sherlock watching him move around the flat, a wistfulness tugging at his expression but it was always gone before he looked around.

There’d been a truly awful night when they’d sat together on the sofa to watch Inspector Morse. Without thinking too much about it, John had remarked that the Inspector had no chance of solving the crime when the scene had clearly been tampered with. When there was no reply from Sherlock, John went on to say that with a gunshot wound to the head, there should have been brain matter spread half way across the floor and then went on to mumble about stupid TV censors.

Suddenly, Sherlock had barked an an restrained laugh and turned to John, a long-missed sparkle of fondness lighting up his whole face before the shutters came back down and he spat, _Damn you, John Watson_ , and fled the room.

**--**

**Things back to normal? – greg**

**No. Worse – JW**

**Shit. What are you going to do? – greg**

**Don’t know. Might be moving out – JW**

**Balls to that. Fix it! – greg**

**Don’t know how – JW**

**FIX IT!!! – greg**

**Greg says you and Sherlock are broken? – Molly**

**Kind of, yeah. He hates me – JW**

**You know he doesn’t – Molly**

**You’re right. He says he doesn’t feel anything anymore. Which is worse – JW**

**And what do you feel? – Molly**

**It’s complicated – JW**

**It’s really not – Molly**

**I’m not good with words, Molly – JW**

**Then don’t tell him, SHOW HIM – Molly**

**--**

**One week later**

**Progress report? – greg**

**I’ll know tomorrow – JW**

**Good luck – greg**

**Last hope. If this doesn’t work, I’ve got nothing else – JW**

**Call if you need a sofa to kip on – greg**

**Thanks – JW**

**-**

“Can I talk to you?” John folded his morning paper and put it aside, his heart hammering in his chest.

“Alright.” Closing the book he’d been reading while eating breakfast, he gave John his full attention.

John reached to the floor and picked up the bowl Sherlock had smashed two weeks before. He’d collected all the large shards he could find and methodically glued them together. It’s wasn’t pretty and it was by no way complete, “I tried my best.”

Sherlock picked up the sorry excuse for a bowl, cradling it carefully in his hands. There were several large pieces missing, including essential pieces in the base, “It’s never going to serve as a bowl again, is it?”

“No… “ John glanced at it, “No, it’s not. That bowl is unsalvageable.” John reached down again, “So I got you this.

He placed the new bowl in front of Sherlock. It was a lurid fire-engine red and had a thick white rim running around the top.

Sherlock looked down at it quizzically, his hands full with the old one, “Are those…?”

“Bees? Yeah, I painted them on.” John nudged it closer until Sherlock put the old bowl aside to lift the replacement.

“They’re not very good bees, John.” He said, turning it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it.

“I’m not a very good artist. Look, that long thin one with the scarf,” he gestured to one near the top edge, “That’s you.”

Sherlock squinted at the yellow and black blob unconvinced, “If you say so.”

“And that fat one on the other edge…” he pointed.

“Mycroft, I assume,” a small smile was forming, edging itself forward in spite of his resistance,” and this one in the bottom of the bowl?”

“Donovan. I thought you’d enjoy drowning her in milk every morning.”

Sherlock chuckled in spite of himself and then picked out the others decorating the crockery. Lestrade, with a tiny pair of handcuffs,  and Molly with a ponytail lurked on the sides, as did one for Mrs Hudson in a suitable purple dress. John explained that he’d hunted down the food-safe paint especially and Sherlock nodded in approval.

Turning the bowl over again, he frowned, “There’s not one for you?”

John dropped his eyes, “I didn’t know if I still belonged there anymore. This isn’t about me, Sherlock. This is because I broke something, and I need to try and make it right for you. This is so you know that sometimes, things can’t be fixed, but maybe they can be replaced by something else. Maybe something better.”

Sherlock carefully lowered the bowl to the table top, trying desperately to hide the shaking in his hands, “Thank you, John. I appreciate it.”

“Good, that’s good. Look, I’m going out for a while. I promised I’d meet Greg for lunch. We’ll talk later, yeah?”

Sherlock was still staring with wonder at the bowl as John left the flat, grinning, “Of course, yes.”

**--**

A little after seven, John stepped back through the door of the flat to be confronted by Sherlock turning him around  and pushing him back out. It was the first physical contact they’d had in three weeks and John was somewhat dismayed at the feeling of rightness in Sherlock’s broad hands on his shoulders.

“Come on, John. We’re already late,” Sherlock was hailing a cab as John lagged behind on the pavement.

“Late for what, Sherlock?”

“Angelo’s! Dinner, John. We have reservations!” The vibrancy, missing for the past weeks, was suddenly back. Sherlock’s frenetic energy gathering John up in it’s maelstrom.

“I didn’t know we were going to dinner.”

“Well of course you didn’t, you’ve been out all day,” Sherlock threw the words over his shoulder as he climbed into the cab.

**--**

“Ahhh, Sherlock. We were wondering if you’d been waylaid.” Angelo’s European tones held familiar fondness, “Usual table?”

“Please,” Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and handed it off, “We’re in your capable hands.”

The obligatory candle appeared and was lit with great ceremony  before the orders were taken and they were left to themselves.

Silence fell. John wasn’t sure where Sherlock’s head was at, after the morning, but it seemed like progress.

“You’re supposed to ask if I have family,” Sherlock prompted.

“What?”

“Or friends. It’s small-talk John. It’s how we get to know each… Oh damn it, I’ll start,” Sherlock leaned forward in mock concentration, “So… you have a girlfriend?”

“What… No! Sherlock… “

Sherlock sighed, “That wasn’t right. Look… I’ll make this simple, because you’re clearly struggling to keep up. Should have expected it, you being… not me, and all. We’re starting again, John. Clean slate… new bowl. So _work with me_ ,” he said pointedly, “How would you have _wanted_ this night to go, if you could do it again?”

John blinked slowly. Could it be that simple? Start afresh, turn the disaster into new hope. He mentally shrugged, it was worth a try. He leaned forward, mimicking Sherlock’s pose, elbows on the table, “So… do you have a girlfriend?”

Sherlock paused, nodded and smiled, “No… not really… my area.”

John smiled, “Right, no girlfriend…” he paused, “boy… friend?”

“No.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to be drilling into John, full of unsaid words.

John took a deep breath, and grasped for the words from the original conversation, “OK, no boy…”

Sherlock shook his head, stopping the flow, “Change it…” he whispered urgently.

John frowned and thought the remainder of the conversation through. He’d assure Sherlock that whatever his sexuality, it was fine. Sherlock would agree, and brush John off with a comment about being married to his work. Change it, Sherlock had said.

“What’s your type then, out of interest?” He ventured.

Sherlock smiled, “Someone who sees me for who I am. Someone who says _amazing_ and _brilliant_ and doesn’t mind me keeping eyeballs in the fridge. Someone who would grieve for me for two years and then forgive me for not being dead. Someone who made a mistake and hurt me, but wouldn’t let me walk away when I was ready to give up. Yes, someone like that would be my type.”

“I hope you find him. I think he’d be lucky to have you, and I’m sure you’d be just his type.”

“I hope so, because I have a feeling he’s close by.”

**--**

They stumbled through the door laughing and panting for breath, much like their original first night together. There’d been no mislaid cane this time, and no breathless cab  chases through the streets, but the buoyant mood was startlingly similar as they leaned against the wall in the downstairs hallway.

“That was a good night, Sherlock, thanks.” John huffed around a high pitched giggle, “For giving us a second chance, I mean.” He looked to the man on his left with a smile.

Sherlock grinned back, “It was good, wasn’t it?” He glanced up the stairs toward their door, “Walk me home?”

“Only if I can have a goodnight kiss.” John responded without thinking, before belatedly realising it could be terrible mistake.

A complex combination of expressions darted across Sherlock’s face. Shock, a trace of anger and sadness before he settled on something more interesting, something John hadn’t seen before.

“Too fast?” John asked, anxious to clear the air before feelings were hurt again.

“No, I was just considering what I would have done if you’d have said that last time we were here.”

John mimicked the words Sherlock used at Angelo’s, his voice rough, “How would you want this night to go, if you could do it over again?”

“I would have done this,” Sherlock turned to John and stepped forward, placing a warm palm on each of John’s cheeks and looking down into his eyes. Pausing a moment in case John had second thoughts, he pressed their lips gently together.

“Then I would have done this,” Sherlock’s voice dropped low as he stepped even closer, his Belstaff coat forming a curtain around them both as Sherlock pressed John against the wall against the long line of his body. John moaned and pressed up on the balls of his toes, encouraging the second, hungrier kiss.

“And then,” Sherlock whispered into the intimate space between their faces, “I’d have done this.” He tilted his hips forward, grinding against John’s where they were flush against the wall. The hard length of Sherlock’s erection pressed against John’s hip, making it instantly clear how much he wanted John at that moment.

“Would you have let me do… this?” John rasped, sliding a hand down Sherlock’s torso to palm him through his trousers as Sherlock bucked against him with a hiss.

“Oh, yes. I imagine I would have,” Sherlock muttered.

“And what about this?” John licked a line up Sherlock’s neck before latching on and sucking hard, “It always seemed to me that you’d like that,” he chuckled as he pulled away and Sherlock shuddered under his hands.

“You’d have been right,” Sherlock edged back slightly, panting hard. “John, I know I said we’re starting over, but if it’s alright with you, I’d like to skip the four years of foreplay this time and get straight to the sex.”

“You won’t get an argument from me, I’ve wanted you for years.”

Sherlock stilled and he shivered as if someone had walked over his grave.

“What?” John lay a hand on his arm, sensing the change in mood.

“Just…” Sherlock sucked in a breath through his nose, “You said that, when you called me… when you were drunk.”

“Jesus, sorry. I really fucked up that night, didn’t I?” John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock shrugged, "I said it, I meant it. Fresh start, new bowl. But I promise you one thing…” He looked at where John’s hand was on his arm and then up to his face, licking his lips, “You won’t get the opportunity to call me a cocktease again.”

**--**

“Christ, Sherlock!” John grabbed desperately at the sheet as Sherlock’s head dipped down and engulfed his cock again.

The man whose name had been shouted so enthusiastically simply hummed contentedly and gripped a little firmer at John’s hips, controlling the thrusting that threatened to interrupt his rhythm.

His movements stifled, John simply moaned and ground his shoulders down onto the mattress, “God, your mouth. Should’ve known, you’re made for this.”

Sherlock pulled off with a wet pop and chuckled, his nose buried amongst the wiry hairs at John’s crotch, “Perhaps you needed the right partner?”

“In that case, I never want anyone else. I just want you, doing that… forever.” John panted, gasping for breath during Sherlock’s short respite.

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Sherlock pouted in mock dismay, “I was rather hoping you’d like me to stop so you could fuck me.”

John’s mouth fell over as he looked in astonishment at Sherlock’s comically petulant face nestled at crotch-level, “You’d what?”

“Fuck me, John. Or let me fuck you, I’d be happy with either, although I’ve never bottomed and I was hoping you’d be the first.”

The first…Christ..come up here,” John tugged at Sherlock until he crawled up to sprawl against him, “We don’t…it doesn’t have to be tonight, you know that, right?”

Sherlock’s eyes shone in the dim light, huge pale pools only inches from John’s, “I know that, and it’s not because I have to prove something, or other rubbish. I just want…” his words trailed off, “I’ve waited so long, and I thought we’d missed our chance. I want this, I think I _need_ it.”

John looked at the honesty and vulnerability in Sherlock’s face, knowing it must be reflected in his own. Sherlock was right, in some way they _both_ needed this. Something to finally put a stamp on the past and begin their future, “Yeah, yeah OK. I think I do to.”

Sherlock smiled and sunk against John for another round of increasingly desperate kisses, tongues entwining and exploring as hands roamed across skin. Pulling away, Sherlock mumbled, “Top drawer.”

Suddenly nervous, John barked an awkward, aborted laugh, “Right, yeah. I’ll..ummm… “

“You’ve done this?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed, “My deductions about you aren’t always right, but I was reasonably sure…”

“Yes, yeah… I’ve done…this. But, Sherlock, you said this was your first time as… “

“Bottom…OH!” The word came out as a long surprised exclamation, “This is your first time topping. I’d always assumed, If you’d prefer…”

“No, I want to, I really do, just… “

“First time for us,” Sherlock smiled wickedly, “both virgins then.”

John couldn’t stifle the schoolyard laugh that bubbled up, “Popping our cherries together.”

“Not sure that term applies to men, John,” Sherlock grinned, “but let’s not quibble on semantics.”

John waggled the condom he’d retrieved from the drawer with the lube, “No, no more quibbling.”

**--**

**Three weeks later**

John was washing up when he turned Sherlock’s new bowl over to dry on the rack and saw the base.

“Sherlock!”

“Hmmm?” Sherlock turned from where he was sitting at the breakfast table, delightfully rumpled in robe and pyjamas.

“You painted a bee on the base of your bowl.” John said in amazement.

Sherlock’s new bee was detailed and anatomically accurate. It resembled pictures in biology texts, wings picked out in exquisite detail, legs so finely rendered that the hairs were visible.

Sherlock stood and stepped close to John, folding his arms around the shorter mans waist and nestling his chin on John’s shoulder, looking down at the upturned bowl, “Do you like it? It’s you.”

“Me?” John stared at the bee in wonder, “It’s perfect.”

“No, John,” Sherlock hummed as he kissed John’s neck, “not quite perfect. But it _is_ beautiful, and it’s perfect for me. Now come back to bed.”

John turned in the cage of Sherlock’s arms, laying the bowl aside in favour of placing his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face and drawing him into a deep kiss, “Perfect.”

**--**

**30 years later**

“Sherlock, I’m home,” John closed the door behind him and knelt to unclip Gladstone’s leash, watching as the Bulldog trotted off in search of food.

Standing smoothly, he dropped his door keys into the red and white bowl that took pride of place on the hallway table. They rattled briefly before settling next to Sherlock’s set. The painted bees were practically invisible now, rubbed off over years of use, only the barest scraps of yellow and black paint flecked the still vivid red. There was a chip on the rim where an unfortunate scuff with a saucepan hidden in washing-up water had left it the loser and signaled an end to it’s glorious career as a breakfast bowl. John gave it one last habitual brush with his fingers before he walked down the hall and through the door to their well lit sitting room.

Sitting in the bay window of their Suffolk home, Sherlock looked up over the top edge of his reading glasses with a smile, “Hi, how’d it go?”

“Dull. Honestly, I think they only invite me in the hope that you’ll come along and say something unforgivably rude.” John sat heavily in the  chair opposite Sherlock.

“Which would never happen,” Sherlock chuckled sarcastically, “Seriously, John, you should be proud. Your book is selling well and the reviews have been excellent.”

“It’s really _your_ book. It’s your cases, after all. I just wrote them up,” John flicked through the mail he’d brought in from the mailbox.

“It’s _our_ book, then.” Sherlock pushed his glasses back up his nose and ran a hand through his now grey hair, “The book of two men’s frankly _ridiculous_ adventures.”

John looked up at the man he’d spent almost half his life with and smiled, his entire face lighting up, “and their frankly _extraordinary_ love story.”


End file.
